Lost For Words
by Moonstarer
Summary: When Sara returned to LV after 2yrs she had a shock, now she has a choice, but does Grissom know which answer he wants to hear and can he cope with the stress? GSR DARK! AU post G&GL. Standalone sequel to Cottonwood House, see AN for more info. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.

**A/N **OK, I know author's notes can be tedious but PLEASE READ this before continuing and I promise I'll try only to put in a couple more for the whole of the rest of the story.

When I took part in a Geekfiction Ficathon and wrote _Cottonwood House_ it was the first time I'd written a story that didn't have the framework of a case file to support it, the first time I'd tried to write from Sara's point of view, and the first time I'd written anything vaguely approaching GSR, although it wasn't in the least bit fluffy. I thought people would hate it!

Instead the response amazed me and I was surprised at the number of reviews I got for a relatively short piece. Many readers admitted to finding the subject matter difficult (and it still is in this sequel), but most had persevered and many demanded that I write more.

At first I resisted, the story wasn't in my usual style (other than being angsty) and was only ever intended to be a one off, but in the end I started to come around to the idea. It's taken me over a year, mainly because I finished my novel length _Prisoner 4929_ in the meantime, but also because I didn't quite know how to continue. It's been a struggle, but it's finished at last. I've tried to make it work as a standalone piece but, like all sequels, it inevitably contains spoilers for the original story, so if you want to avoid being spoiled, like to read stories in chronological order or just want to remind yourself of the story if you read it before you can find _Cottonwood House_ by going to my profile page and selecting it from the list of stories at the bottom or entering "Cottonwood" in the story search box. (I was going to put a link here, but guess what FFnet won't allow?) Finally, I'd like to thank all those who encouraged me to continue the story (don't you think I deserve a review or two for actually doing it?) and SylvieT in particular for actually answering when I asked "If there's going to be a sequel, what should I actually put in it?", if I missed owt out, lass, please forgive me. :)

Thanks also to my Beta, Auntie J and finally to ELM22 for agreeing to do the final read through.

OK, I'll shut up. Now it's time for Grissom to have his 'say'...

**Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words**

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- Alphonse Karr

**Chapter 1**

The romantic thing to say would be that my life changed completely the day Sara Sidle agreed to marry me. The melodramatic thing would be to say that it crashed down around me the day she walked away. The honest thing to say would be that neither of those events had quite such a drastic impact as what happened four months later, when, after years of incoherent threats made against me that were never followed through, the family of one man whose conviction I was in part responsible for finally took their revenge. What happened that day I know only from what other people have told me, but the effects on my movement, hearing and, most devastatingly, my speech, are with me and will continue to be so for the rest of my life.

When the attack happened no-one was able to reach Sara, she was still moving around a lot and, between her absence and trying to deal with the effects of my injuries, the hurt from her sudden departure became less prominent, not because I didn't care anymore, but because I could only deal with so much at once.

By the time I had recovered enough to think about my relationship with Sara again she had been gone for over a year and I doubted that I would ever hear from her again, so I shut away those thoughts and feelings and got on with learning to live with my disabilities.

Then, three weeks ago, Sara came back into my life. Suddenly I found myself dealing with those feelings as if they were fresh and raw all over again.

What really confuses me is why she has come back now. Did Sara believe that we could just pick up again where we left off? Surely that wouldn't have been sensible even if it were possible. Maybe she thought we'd both have changed enough for it to work better this time. Maybe she thinks she has changed enough for both of us, but if she has changed that much, how could she be sure that she'd still want to be with me? Is she just being a hopeless optimist or even a hopeless romantic? Whichever it is, it seems to have been enough to prevent her just turning around and leaving again, now that she knows what has happened to me, but how long will she stay?

"Concentrate, Grissom!" The voice of my physical therapist, Daniel, breaks into my reverie. _One thing at a time_ has become my mantra over the last few months and it has worked well as I learn to cope with my new life. At least it did until my equilibrium was disturbed by Sara's return to Nevada. Now I can't seem to drag my thoughts away from her and today it's even worse than usual.

"You can do better than that."

Checking the line marked by the tiles at the bottom of the therapy pool I realise that I've veered far to my right. As the aim of the exercise I'm doing is not so much to make it quickly to the other end of the pool as to do it in a straight line, I'm failing miserably but, even with the webbed neoprene glove I'm wearing on my right hand, it takes concentration to make the effort needed to compensate for the weakness that still affects the right side of my body. Although my left side came back to life relatively quickly after the horrendous couple of weeks when I woke from a coma to find myself completely paralysed, the right side lagged behind and I'm still working on regaining the muscle strength I lost.

A moment's struggle gets me back on line and this time I control my wandering thoughts enough to make it to the end without swerving too much.

"All right, let's see you get out of there on your own and then we'll call it a day."

So, that's my punishment for not concentrating on my therapy. I cast a longing look at the sling hoist that is my normal way of getting in and out of the pool, but Daniel is adamant.

It takes time and, as I finally emerge from the water, the sudden return of the pull of gravity on my body makes me stumble. Daniel is ready for that and he expertly keeps me moving up out of the water and the few steps over to one of the waterproof, light weight, wheeled chairs that are used in the pool area.

A large towel is draped around me before the chill of the water evaporating from my skin begins to hit and then Dan propels me to one of the changing areas where my own more durable motorized chariot awaits me. As we travel I unfasten the Velcro which keeps my swimming glove in place and then reach to remove the fluorescent orange plug that protects my left ear by preventing water from entering it. It doesn't make any difference to my hearing, my inner ear on that side is beyond repair, meaning I can hear nothing with that ear and causing the balance problems that mean that however strong my legs become it will never be safe for me to walk far unaided.

Once he has me safely parked in the shower area Daniel leaves me to it. With shower gel, shampoo and conditioner decanted into wall mounted press button dispensers and a long handled sponge for the more awkward places I can wash myself pretty well now.

When he hears the water cut off Dan returns and helps me to where I can start to dry off. After quickly towelling off the areas that are hard for me to reach unaided he sits me on a towel covered bench and hands me a fresh, smaller cloth so I can continue getting myself dry. As I do so he sits beside me and takes my right hand in his. Other than the fact that my right arm is extended I barely notice as he carefully checks my hand for injuries that might have been missed because I cannot feel pain in that area and then begins to massage it, a process intended to prevent the tendons contracting from lack of use. I perform a similar routine myself before going to sleep at night but it's important that Daniel does this too, not only can he do a better job by using both his hands at once but his general experience and his familiarity with my hand in particular mean that he should notice any changes that might occur early on while there is still time to do something about them.

Now that I've finished the slow process of drying my body and reached the point where my hair is merely damp I have to wait while Daniel retrieves the clothes I've put into the bag which is currently slung over the handles on the back of my wheelchair.

As I wait I turn and stare at the mirror hanging on the wall beside me. Bringing up my right arm I use the back of my numbed hand to support my chin and stop the gentle wobbling motion that has plagued me since I first regained enough strength to hold my head up unsupported.

Well, perhaps plagued is too strong a word. People assume that I must find the movement irritating but mostly I hardly notice. Unless I'm actively thinking about it my brain has learned to automatically edit the motion out of my visual image of the world, just as most people edit out the slight up and down movement of their heads caused by the action of walking or running. It's only at times like this that I notice it at all now.

Looking at my image in the mirror I see a face starting to crumple with age and, in more recent times, pain. Even when youth was on my side my mismatched cheekbones and jaw line prevented me from ever considering myself conventionally handsome and time has compounded that asymmetry, as the skin around my eyes has become more and more creased one of my eyelids has started to droop more than the other. What could Sara ever see in me?

Still, I halt myself in this barrage of self criticism; all these irregularities are at least ones that I have had since childhood, not the results of my brush with hemiplegia. In fact the assault itself has only had a minimal effect on my appearance, just some minor scarring and cartilage damage to my left ear that is barely visible from the front. The worst scars, the ones from the various surgeries, are well hidden by a combination of my beard and my thankfully still thick and curly hair.

"What have we here?"

Daniel's voice brings me back to the present. He has some of my clothes in his hand.

"Now I'm beginning to guess what made you lose concentration earlier." He reaches into my bag again, producing a deep blue item, something that Catherine insisted I keep when I cleared out my wardrobe in favour of clothes more practical for my new life.

"A silk dress shirt? You're going on a date, aren't you?"

I try to look enigmatic, there are some advantages to not being able to speak coherently, but my brain injury affected my emotional control too and, without my old mask to defend me, my embarrassment shows through. Daniel knows he's caught me.

Usually I am glad that my schedule means that my day begins in the swimming pool. It means that when I first wake up I only need to clean my teeth and get into my swimming shorts and some sweats on top and then Daniel will help me with showering and getting into any more complex clothes after the exercise session is over.

Lucy, my primary carer is willing to do all this, of course, but I prefer to avoid having her do too much of the physical stuff. Lucy, who specializes in helping those with aphasia, is often the only person who understands me with any certainty, she is my emotional support and my best link to the rest of the world and, being the person I am, I find it easiest to work with her when she doesn't know what underwear I picked out that morning.

As I said, _usually_, having Dan help me is a good thing but, on days like today, it isn't always so great.

"Yes, you're definitely going out somewhere." By now he has also extracted my underwear and a pair of navy blue cargo pants, which are, admittedly, my usual choice, with an elastic waist which is more comfortable for a man who spends most of his time sitting down, and pockets which are accessible without needing to stand up, but these are one of my newest pairs and freshly laundered. The real clincher for Daniel, however, is my choice of shoes. Instead of slip on loafers or a pair of running shoes with Velcro flaps to fasten them I have gone for a smart casual look with lace up deck shoes.

Daniel looks like he thinks he's got me over a barrel and, if I want to wear this particular outfit, he has. Getting in and out of sweats is one thing but I need someone to get me started on fastening the button through shirt and I defy anyone to tie their shoes single handed, left or right.

"OK, I'll do you a deal. You tell me the lucky lady's name and I'll help you dress to impress. Otherwise you're on your own."

We both know Dan's only teasing. Cottonwood House is a tight ship and proud of its reputation for both rehabilitation and long term care. If Daniel were really the type to bully or blackmail his clients he would have been found out and fired long ago. I quickly discovered that he uses these tactics as part of his toolbox of ways to get me to make an extra effort to move or speak. He'd stop if he thought I was becoming genuinely distressed but otherwise he can be pretty stubborn so, grudgingly, I give him his answer.

"'Ara."

"Sara?"

I nod in confirmation and Daniel grins, smug at being right.

"OK then, let's get you get you into your pants first and then I'll get you started on your shirt buttons. Then I'll deal with your shoes. I'll make sure the laces are very secure – you'll probably need Lucy to unfasten them for you tonight, but at least you won't have to worry about them coming undone while you're out."

I smile my approval of his plan and we get started.


	2. Chapter 2

CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.

**Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words**

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- Alphonse Karr

**Chapter 2**

Sara is already seated at our table when Lucy drops me at the restaurant. She looks beautiful in a light summer dress that shows off the healthy glow her skin seems to have acquired now that she no longer spends her days sleeping or working in a windowless lab. It makes me glad I made an effort with my own appearance.

My stomach lurches a little as I draw nearer and I don't know how much of it is because of the feeling I've always had that I am not good enough for her, or because of my fear that this lunch is going to be a complete disaster.

Daniel thought that my outing today was a date but, right now, it feels anything but romantic. Maybe that's just as well. I can't allow myself to feel that way about Sara right now.

I am waiting for Sara to answer a question.

It was a huge shock when Lucy told me that Sara was back in Nevada and would be joining Catherine in visiting me later that week. Suddenly I was engulfed in a rush of memories and emotions that had been forced into the background by the immediacy of dealing with the aftermath of my traumatic brain injury.

I remembered sitting in my darkened office, Sara's farewell note crumpling as my fingers clenched around it. Concern and anxiety for Sara were foremost in my mind, and devastation at her decision to leave, but both were flavoured with a tinge of inevitability. I had always known that one day Sara would find me lacking and move on. I just wished that it hadn't happened the way it did and at a time when I had been trying my hardest to reach out to her.

Lucy worked hard to help me deal with the sudden onslaught. I still need to pay attention to my blood pressure and suffer from severe headaches if it gets too high.

Correctly guessing that one of my biggest fears was that, after seeing the 'new me', Sara might decide to just turn around and leave again, Lucy reassured me that, since Catherine had invited her to visit with me, Sara must be aware that I live in a centre for people with neurological disabilities, by the time that she arrived she would have had time to adjust to the fact, and that she wouldn't have agreed to coming in the first place if she didn't think she could cope.

Trying to explain to Lucy about my other concerns regarding Sara's return forced me to focus my thoughts and provided a framework for programming the speech synthesizer I use with the things I most wanted to say to Sara herself. Also, while helping me turn my thoughts into sensible English, Lucy learned things about the two of us that even Catherine, who once explained to Lucy why the tall, gap toothed, brunette, so prominent in my pictures of the Crime Lab team, was the only person in them who never came to visit me, didn't know.

Only Sara and I ever knew we'd been engaged, she'd left before we could get a ring and announce it properly, until Lucy translated my garbled attempts to break things off, and I had never shown anyone else the contents of that letter until I fetched it from its hiding place amongst Shakespeare's Sonnets so that I could ask Lucy to quote from it.

I decided to end our engagement because I was never quite sure if Sara thought we were still intending to marry or not. I also wanted to make it clear to her that she has a choice to make. Either we start again from friendship, aware that the things which have happened in our separate lives over the last two years must have changed both of us and, in my case at least, thrown more obstacles in the way of any future we might spend together, or she should walk away now.

I really hope she doesn't choose the second option, but I also don't believe that it would make sense to simply try and pick up where we left off. Things can't have been right between us then, or she wouldn't have left in the first place. I don't want her to start trying to build on that unsteady foundation and have her feel trapped and unable to move on because I know Sara well enough to realise how guilty she would feel to walk out on any wounded creature.

For the first few years after she came to Las Vegas I had been unintentionally disrespectful and downright hurtful to Sara by not overcoming my reluctance to discuss my concerns about starting a relationship with her and, instead, pushing her away with my behaviour towards her. Even when I did talk I used my job as an excuse not to be with her, making her feel like my career came first, instead of being frank about my insecurities. I thought that a forensic entomologist wasn't just what I was, it was who I was, and I believed that Sara would be seriously disappointed with what was left if I gave up my work. Now, I guess, I may find out if that was true. Still, I am determined that I will not hurt her again like that, no matter how much harder communication has become for me since then.

That's why I put the final decision about where we go from here into Sara's hands, to give her back the power I took away by not trusting her to make her own mind up about whether a man like me could ever be right for a woman like her.

No serious decision should ever be made without having all the necessary information so, in electing to let Sara have control I also made the choice to do something I had never managed to do before and make clear at least some of the reasons for my concern.

I say some, not just because of the length of time it takes for me to say anything at all, but also because I want Sara to focus on how her decision will affect her life. I don't want to go into my fears that one day I will lose her permanently, because I don't want that knowledge to change her mind if she believes that going away again will be the best thing for her. The only concession I was prepared to ask for from that point of view was to seek her promise to tell me in person if she decides to leave. I don't think I could survive the rejection of another "Dear John".

So, I sat down with Lucy and my speech synthesizer and I tried to say everything I could think of but, in the end, it didn't come out as anywhere near enough. Things weren't even in the right order.

I managed to explain some of my concern that we might both have changed since we last spent time together and then I pointed out how poor our communication was even when I still had my speech, but then I found myself diving straight into the question of children. I considered it important because, although I'm too much of a gentleman to say it in so many words, Sara's biological clock may be starting to run out of time. Oh, she's not forty yet, quite, and even that age is hardly a rigid limit after which you can't have children, especially not these days, but there are all sorts of factors from lower fertility to multiple births that could come into play, especially as she has never had a child before. Then there are the risks of congenital health problems for the child, which together with the lower fertility could only be compounded if the father happened to be well over forty years old himself. Except he won't be. Well, he won't be Gil Grissom, anyway.

I am told that I have been lucky in that the personality changes caused by my head injury are relatively minor, my friends still recognise me as the man they knew before it happened. There have definitely been some changes though and maybe one of them is that I have become more selfish. When I proposed to Sara, what seems like half a millennium ago, we had never discussed becoming parents. I knew I had strong doubts about fatherhood even then but, if Sara had been keen on the idea, I would probably have gone along with it. Now I know that I won't, and that's why I had to mention it so soon. If a family is important to Sara then she can't afford to waste her time on me.

By the time I'd managed to get all that across for Lucy to make into coherent language I was very tired and we had taken up most of the available time. The remaining day or so was filled with trying to explain the practical problems of having a relationship with me and making Sara aware that, although I first came to Cottonwood House for extended rehabilitation, after six months I decided to make it my long term and probably permanent residence. I now live in a small, purpose built medium dependency unit which includes private accommodation for Lucy.

I admit that, when I first made it, a lot of that decision was because, without any family, my options were limited, but I have never regretted making it. Living there has worked out well for me and, once again, I am not prepared to change to something that suits me less well just to fit in with someone else.

Catherine seems to actually like this change in me. She says it's about time that I put the assertiveness I managed to have in situations when I felt the integrity of the evidence or my team was being compromised into action on my own behalf. "I could never understand, Gil," she said, "how someone who was willing to fight so hard for a dead stranger could put so little into defending their own right to happiness."

When I tried to express my concern about this personality change to Lucy she was more analytical. She suggested that whatever change I think I've noticed might not be a primary effect of my brain damage, but a secondary response. Maybe, because of my disabilities, I have been forced to consider the things that I most need and want above my concerns about how l believe others think I should or ought to behave. I liked that idea so much l got her to add it to my comments for Sara. It almost sounded like something my previous self might have said.

I'm sure there was a lot more I could have included in my words for Sara, a lot of other things that were probably just as important for her to know. Unfortunately, when I'm trying to communicate, it takes so much of my concentration that it's impossible to keep anything but the idea I'm trying to express in my mind at any one time and, for the same reason, nor can I make a written note of my thoughts to return to later. All the other things I should have asked Sara to consider just ended up slipping through my mental fingers and then, suddenly, there was no more time.

With my "speech", such as it was, ready and prepared, I managed to overcome both anxiety and tiredness and look forward to Sara's arrival. In fact I was almost driving in circles around the living area of my small apartment, so Lucy decided to treat me like a little boy and sent me out to the parking lot to meet my guests.

Maybe, before going out there, I should have remembered how often I have told people never to assume. Lucy was wrong about Sara being prepared for the changes in me, Catherine hadn't felt able to break the news, so the first Sara knew of my disabilities was when I drove up to her in a motorized wheelchair with my head bobbing along to some soundless tune and made a garbled request to be hugged.

Sara turned and walked away; and it nearly killed me.


	3. Chapter 3

CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.

**Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words**

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- Alphonse Karr

**Chapter 3**

Even once the misunderstanding was dealt with and Lucy talked to Sara about the true extent of my problems, it was only because what I needed to say to her was already prepared that I managed to find the courage to approach Sara again.

In spite of the dreadful start, things ended up going better than I'd expected, although it was a shock when someone as independent as Sara volunteered to take on the life restricting task of becoming my carer. I made it clear that that wasn't going to happen; I don't think either of us would cope well with the stresses caused by the inequalities of an arrangement like that.

I was very pleased when Sara wouldn't give me her response immediately. Instead she asked if she could visit me a few more times to help her understand the consequences of her choice. I was overjoyed to feel her in my arms again when she insisted on giving me the hug she had refused me when she first arrived.

Then, after she'd gone, I began to panic again. Had I really covered everything I needed to say? Was I really right to leave things up to Sara? Was it fair on her to drop things in her lap like that?

Ever since then I've been fighting the urge to fall back into my old habits and start pushing Sara away with my behaviour. At least this time I would have the excuse that I don't have the option to just sit her down and tell her exactly how I feel.

I can't help thinking that I should be showing Sara the worst aspects of what life can be like around me, even if that means exaggerating or even deliberately inducing some situations. So far, Sara's visits have been on 'good days', maybe because her arrival helps make them good, but it makes me wonder if she might be getting a false impression. So, I admit, when it was suggested that I take Sara out today I accepted the idea because I know there will be challenges that might show me in a less golden light. I just wish I wasn't already becoming so used to Sara being around.

I feel so confused. In the past, when my logical and emotional sides pulled in opposite directions I simply ignored my feelings and took the logical path. It was always harder to do where Sara was concerned, of course, and sometimes my judgement was thrown off but, now that I can't separate thought and emotion so easily I honestly don't know what to do for the best. I don't want to ruin Sara's life by making her stay, but I dread the effect on me if she leaves again now that I am becoming used to having her around.

Looking at Sara across the restaurant I realise how little I want to risk hurting her again and I know that subterfuge would. I also know she'd spot any attempt pretty fast, now that my poker face no longer works. All I can do is make myself a promise to take things as they come and not deliberately make them difficult. If Sara agrees to stay she'll have to accept me as I am and everything that comes with that, there's no room for deceit.

I smile at the maitre d' as he greets me. Sometimes, when my mind is on other things, it's a relief not to be expected to speak. I trundle after him in my chair as he grabs a menu and leads me out onto the terrace.

Sara stands to greet me as I get out of my wheelchair. Her hand on my arm steadies me as we exchange light cheek kisses, then she and the maitre d' help me to sit on the chair opposite Sara's. I smile at Sara again and indicate her menu.

"It's OK; I've already decided what I want."

With a nod I check out my own menu, which has been helpfully left open on the table in front of me, while our host takes the wheelchair and moves it out of the way.

On his return Sara orders a shrimp salad. Shellfish is her one occasional 'sin' when it comes to her vegetarianism and I find myself smiling as I recall our old exchanges when I would point out that, officially, that makes her a pescatarian instead, which would normally result in me being playfully smacked with her menu for being a smartass.

Sara must have caught my expression and realised what I was thinking. I watch as she lifts her menu and reaches over, swatting at my right hand where it rests on the table. There's a big, playful grin on her face and I try not to let her see as I visually check to see that she hasn't caused any accidental injury.

"Oh, I'm sorry Gil, I forgot. Are you OK?" Her smile is now replaced with a look of anxiety and concern.

I didn't feel a thing.

All I can do is nod and smile. I lift my arm in a 'look, no harm done' gesture, but the way my hand hangs limply from my wrist just emphasises the problem.

The server clears his throat. Thankful for the interruption I point out my selection from the list. Fish pie rather than the calamari which is the speciality here at The Grille but is too much of a challenge for me to eat when my concentration is likely to be elsewhere. Thinking about how long it does take me to eat, I draw the server's attention back to the menu, point to the heading for the appetizers then point to Sara.

"I think Doctor Grissom would like to suggest that you order an appetizer, ma'am."

"Oh, sorry Gil, did you want one?

I shake my head and try to work out how to explain that I will be eating slowly enough for her to manage two courses while I tackle just one. Even with my speech synthesizer it would be difficult and there isn't enough space for me to have it on the table. Even if there were I wouldn't be able to juggle using it with eating a meal, so I chose not to bring it with me.

Once again the maitre d' rescues me; having served me on previous visits, he guesses my motivation and explains it to Sara, looking at me to confirm that he's correct.

"Oh, I see. Well how about we stick with what I ordered and then maybe I can see how many desserts I can get through in the time left over?" Sara is smiling her usual gap toothed grin, but I know she's starting to realise that there's a lot more to having lunch with me than just finding a wheelchair friendly restaurant.

Finally, I select a light wine for us both to share, non-alcoholic as it is only lunchtime, Sara will be driving later and I have meds to consider. The server repeats my choice aloud for Sara's approval and, once she agrees, he disappears quickly.

Subtly, my silverware vanishes with him. It was probably only set there in the first place so that it would be clear that Sara was expecting a companion. While my date looks puzzled I remove the rolled up package I placed in the leg pocket of my cargo pants earlier.

The dark cloth opens up to reveal my personalised silverware. There are three items; a Spork, that useful tool enabling guests at buffets and barbecues to keep one hand free to hold their plates; a Knork, similar but with a blunt knife blade along one edge, this one designed for left-handed use; and a matching spoon. All are made of durable polished metal, not picnickers' plastic and each handle has been engraved with the same monogram GG that is embroidered on the fabric of the holder. They were a gift from the team for my last birthday. Some might have decided against a gift that spoke so plainly of the permanence of my disability but, thankfully, they realised that I'm too pragmatic to be upset by something like that. I treasure these items because of the thought that went into the choice of something that is personal, stylish and that I have a use for every day.

I show Sara the label inside the cloth roll that declares it to be "a gift from all at the LVCL" and allow her to inspect the contents while I reach deeper into the leg pocket of my pants and pull out a neoprene glove. It is of a different design to the one I wore when swimming this morning but serves a similar purpose in allowing me to get some use from my right hand. It is almost mitten like, keeping my wrist and fingers reasonably stiff so that they don't flop in the way and my forefinger and thumb are held more rigidly a small distance apart.

At Sara's inquisitive look I demonstrate the glove's usefulness by reaching for and successfully lifting the stemmed glass which sits in front of me in place of a water tumbler, another sign that the staff here are used to my requirements. Using the glove needs some concentration because I have no feedback from the nerves in my hand, but at least it is one less task to have to do with my left hand.

Her curiosity about the gadgets I use satisfied for now, Sara attempts to start a conversation.

"So, it's clear the servers know how to look after you here, have you been here much since..?"

I nod, when Catherine let slip that The Grille was one of my favourite restaurants Lucy was keen to encourage me to come and eat. The restaurant is relatively near Cottonwood House and the team there wanted me to start to spend time away from the place to avoid me becoming institutionalised. At first I hated the idea, even more so because the staff here know how I used to be, but they have been nothing but kind and helpful, as can be seen from the personal attention we're receiving from the maitre d' this afternoon. Unfortunately I can't tell Sara all of this, all I can do is wait for the next question and hope she doesn't become bored with carrying the conversation all by herself.

"So, have you been here with anyone else, besides Lucy?"

At last something I can answer verbally. I nod, then pause and gather all my concentration, "Gu," I pause slightly, "reg."

Sara looks confused, she's probably wondering why I'm now grinning so widely. If Greg himself were here he'd be practically dancing round the table and high fiving me. He knows how hard I've been working to manage to pronounce that initial 'G'. He even spent hours of his own time encouraging me as I practised, even though he knew that my motivation was not to be able to say his name properly, but my own. I really didn't want to spend the rest of my life introducing myself as "Il Rissom". But then it's amazing that I can say anyone's name at all after the damage caused by a piece of my skull broken away by one blow with a tyre iron was forced into one of the language centres of my brain by the following impact. By some fluke the part of my vocabulary comprising of given names and, apparently, my own surname survived the destruction. I can manage to utter something approximating most names, as long as I had come across them before I lost so much of my speech, although I have a tendency to miss the initial sounds. If it wasn't for this strange anomaly I would spend my days almost completely silent.

Now, because of that, I am once again stuck, unable to explain to Sara what a breakthrough I have just made by pronouncing that initial 'G'. Nor can I make a joke about how our mutual friend Mr Stokes is demanding that I work on my initial 'N's next. As I think about all this my expression falls and Sara's changes to concern and sympathy. That's not what I want from her, though; I want her to understand. As I watch her now I realise what a difference it makes that she wasn't around when this first happened to me. The others, who were, look at me today and rejoice in my recovery. They celebrate with me in these small achievements, even though they come ever more rarely as I reach the limits of what I can expect in terms of improvement. Sara never saw me at my worst. She can only compare me to the Gil Grissom she remembers and I am still a shadow of what he used to be, however much I've improved from those early days when I could do nothing but blink my eyes. While I understand why she feels this way I wish she could understand how I feel. Mostly I manage to be positive. I can move, with some help from Lucy I can communicate reasonably well and I'm learning techniques to help me to compensate for most of my physical limitations. I'm doing well, all things considered, but, when I see the expression on Sara's face I am reminded that I'm never going to be the man I used to be and those thoughts bring me down to a place I don't want to be.

Still, whether I like it or not, I have had to say goodbye to the old Gil and Sara will have to do so as well if she chooses to stay. If she can't then perhaps it would be better if she went. Suppressing a sigh I return the smile to my face and carefully reach to touch the pendant of her necklace. It's one I haven't seen before and looks ethnic. I raise my eyebrow in question, hoping I've found a way to change the subject.

It works. The small polished shell on a beaded thong is something which she bought while in Kenya, at a market in Nairobi. Sara admits that it's probably just tourist tat, but she couldn't resist the trader's story about the shell being lucky.

I nudge her along with various expressions and gestures and, by the time our food arrives, Sara is happily regaling me with tales of her time in Africa.

I'm enjoying this lunch much more than I was expecting to. The food is good and the company as wonderful as I remembered though, I must admit, part of the amusement comes from observing Sara as she works her way through the various phases I have noticed people seem to go through as they start to figure out how best to communicate with me.

First there's the monologue, a constant stream of discourse, sometimes on a single subject, sometimes rambling, until the speaker either becomes too self-conscious to continue or, as in Sara's case, decides that they must have bored me to tears.

Then there's the "Twenty Questions" phase. Having learnt that the easiest way for me to answer a question is to nod or shake my head, Sara launches into a barrage of "yes" or "no" questions which actually makes me grateful that one of the balance organs in my head no longer works, because otherwise I'd be really dizzy right now. Eventually I stop her with a pleading look and by saying her name. This clearly reminds her of what I am capable of verbally because, after a brief return to the monologue phase, Sara starts slipping in questions, many of which she must already know the answer to, that allow me to answer with someone's name. I play along because I enjoy interacting with Sara, however silly the game has become. With time, if she decides to stay, Sara will learn that the best way to communicate with me is to mix together a little of every strategy, together with one invented by Lucy which enables me to deal with either/or questions quite well. Still, for a beginner, she's not doing too badly.

Even though she has had to do all the talking my prediction is correct and Sara finishes her salad long before I am close to clearing my plate. However, when the dessert menu arrives, she waves it away.

Leaning towards me she brings my attention back to her by speaking my name.

I nod but, recognising her change to a much more serious tone of voice, I reach to take a mouthful of wine. I'm not looking for courage in the bottom of the glass but I hope that, by concentrating on using my right hand I can control the fear that I can feel creeping upon me. With no feedback from the nerves in my hand I need to watch carefully while I go through the necessary moves, which gives me an excuse not to meet Sara's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Gil."

I was right; she has decided to take the route of self preservation once again. At least she is keeping her promise and telling me personally this time.


	4. Chapter 4

CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.

**A/N **OK, I promised not to clutter the rest of this story up with too many author's notes but, while I hope it goes without saying that the opinions stated by some of the characters in this chapter are not those of the author, I thought it was probably best to point it out anyway.

**Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words**

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- Alphonse Karr

**Chapter 4**

"I shouldn't have walked away from you the way that I did when I first saw you at Cottonwood House."

I look up at Sara in surprise. I thought she knew that I have already forgiven her for that. Of course, this is Sara, I guess she considers it unforgivable to have reacted to any disabled person in that way, but that's the point. She wasn't just reacting to_ any_ disabled person, she was reacting to me, and to the shock of discovering that something drastic had happened while she was away. I just hope that her failure to forgive herself doesn't mean that she hasn't been able to forgive Catherine for not managing to bring herself to explain what was going on before bringing her to see me.

I was angry with Catherine myself until she told me her side of the story. Apparently Sara arrived at the Crime Lab only minutes before she had to leave for court. Catherine knew it would be cruel to break that kind of news and then just walk away so she told herself that she would tell Sara at a better time instead. Unfortunately, the longer it got left the harder Catherine found it to go and see Sara, for whom she had arranged accommodation at the newly finished Eclipse and when she still hadn't gotten around to it by the time she was due to collect Sara and drive her out to see me, she just decided to leave it to Lucy to explain the situation. I can't really blame her for that; while I was drifting in the dark womb of my coma Catherine had to deal with everything that goes with having a critically injured friend, including supporting Jim when he was making decisions regarding my treatment and making sure that there was always someone familiar at my bedside. At the same time, as my deputy, she had to take over the shift at short notice and make sure the work still got done while helping everyone else cope with their own reactions to my condition. It was tough for her and I refuse to blame her for not wanting to recall that time.

I pat Sara's arm gently, trying to show that she has my full forgiveness for what happened on that first day, although the gesture feels pretty inadequate.

I can tell that Sara has more to say but, while I am internally bracing myself for what is to come, she is interrupted.

The two of us arrived quite early for lunch and the restaurant has been steadily filling up ever since. Now one of the servers is seating a group of young men, fraternity boys, seniors or possibly grad students and with more money than sense by the looks of them, a couple of tables over from us. I can tell at once that they are not going to be the best dining companions; they seem to have been drinking already and are very keen that the woman serving them should bring them a round of beers as soon as possible. When the men are settled in their seats and seem to have calmed down a little I look at Sara, ready for her to continue.

"Hey, Andy, you remember the spazwagon you spotted in the parking lot? I guess I can see who needed the taxi service."

I decide to turn what is literally my deaf ear to what our neighbour just said, although my right ear picked the guy up perfectly well, Of course Sara stiffened in reaction but, by pretending I didn't hear, I hope I will force her to ignore them too, rather than risk hurting me by drawing my attention to them. I pick up my Spork and take another mouthful of fish pie.

"Aw look, he can feed himself."

"Look, Jack, just because he seems to be physically handicapped doesn't mean he's a complete dork, leave the guy alone."

At least the latest speaker is attempting to be the voice of reason. I hope he has an effect, I'm not sure l can pretend not to hear for much longer.

"Oh come on, just because we're near Las Vegas doesn't mean that every bozo you see is on their way to be the next 'Rain Man'. Look at the way his head's bobbing around. That guy couldn't count cards if you gave him a calculator."

As they absorb more alcohol the boys are getting louder and Sara will soon work out that I must be hearing at least some of what they're saying.

"Well, if he's that bad, how come he's out with a hot woman like her?"

Good question; I wish I knew the answer.

"Hot? She's almost old enough to be your mother."

"Or young enough to be his daughter, maybe she's stuck with him 'cause he's family."

"Or maybe she ordered a vegetable on the side?" one snickers.

"Nah, we saw the wheelie-mobile, didn't we? It had some kind of logo on the side, a tree or something. She must be a nurse or helper of some sort. She's paid to be with him."

"Bet it's the only way a guy like him can get any female attention. It's a pity that he's probably too dumb to find out if she offers 'extras'. "

I can't pretend that I didn't hear that. The expression that my face formed when I realised that they were comparing Sara to a prostitute is a complete giveaway. Fortunately, l am facing away from the loudmouths' table so they can't see that they have got to me. Unluckily Sara can. Now that she realises that I can hear what's going on she lets her own indignation start to show. Aware that this will only encourage their banter I reach and take her hand in mine, hoping that she will focus on me and calm down.

"Aw, the retard's got a girlfriend!"

I was right; now that they know we can hear them the comments are becoming louder and more targeted. Sara's hand slips out of mine before I can tighten my grip. I try and catch her eyes so I can use mine to implore her to relax and not give these people the pleasure of seeing their hurtful words affect us, but another comment suggesting that Sara just pulled back because she's ashamed to be with me overcomes any influence I might have had.

Sara is in lioness mode, she has found a cause and she's ready for a fight. As her supervisor I often felt the need to reprimand her when she handled a case like that, fighting to make the evidence fit her vision of where guilt and innocence ought to lie, instead of letting it tell its own story. As her partner I sometimes wondered if she would find this world easier to live in if she stopped trying to force it to conform to some Utopian ideal. Despite those things, as a man, I found something deeply attractive about her passion, her "Amazonian moments" as I thought of them, but I never expected or wanted to be the subject of one of her battles.

Normally I would consider Sara a match for anyone, but these boys are too drunk to take anything seriously. They're also a group, more interested in making each other laugh than listening to Sara, and none of them intends to be the first to lose face by backing down and apologizing. I can hardly make out what Sara is saying over their raucous laughter.

Looking down at the table I realise that my left hand has curled itself into a tight fist. While Sara would never want me to fight her battles for her, this one is about me and it is so frustrating that I can't be at her side.

My right hand, as relaxed as the other is tense, reminds me that I can do nothing without confirming the boys' derogatory view of me, embarrassing Sara and making things worse. If I try and go over there without my wheelchair I'll be flat on my face before I've managed more than a few steps and unable to rise again without help. To call out to her and ask her to come back because these ignorant children are just not worth it would be even worse.

Allowing the argument at the other table to blur into white noise, I concentrate on trying to hold back the emotional tide and remain silent. Most people believe that I have one word in my spoken vocabulary in addition to my party trick of stumbling out people's first names. That word is hug or rather, as I pronounce it, "'ugg". They're wrong. "Ugg" is the only _sound_ in my vocabulary. I only make it a word by staying silent when it is not in context. Every time I try to speak "ugg" is what comes out and I'm hardly going to help Sara's cause if I start doing an impression of a demented gorilla.

Lucy has helped me deal with my self control problems by learning to recognise the signals before my anger, panic or frustration boil over so that I can either take myself out of the situation or warn others that something is going to happen. All the signals are present now and I know it won't be long before I crack. Neither of my usual strategies can be applied here, so I have to go for the third option. I lift my left hand to the level of the breast pocket of my shirt and press down hard.

Slowly and deliberately, concentrating on my task to help me stay calm a little longer I begin to wipe my utensils as clean as I can before I return them to their case. Briefly I stop to wipe away a single tear caused by the realisation that, despite my internal promise not to spoil this day for Sara it has ended up happening anyway. Thankfully that thought brings me back to the feelings of anger I have towards the men on the next table, which gives me the fuel to continue my preparations for leaving, rather than descend into misery. My unused spoon goes into the roll last and I put that into my pocket along with my glove, before leaning forward to retrieve my billfold from the back pocket of my pants.

Now all that I need to do is get the maitre d's attention.

Our tormentors do me a favour; the increasing noise from their table has finally drawn a response. The woman who was serving them has now returned, along with her boss and the two of them make it clear that the youths' custom is not welcome any longer. Hearing what is going on I turn my body enough to observe some of what's happening.

"Hey, you can't do this!"

"Yes I can. You won't be charged for the drinks that you've had so far, but you will leave. Now, please."

"Why should we, we're a big group, we're gonna be spending way more than those two. If the lady hadn't come over here and started laying into us things wouldn't have got so loud either."

At this point Sara opens her mouth, but the maitre d' gives her a 'let me handle this ma'am' look. Normally those don't go down well with Miss Sidle, but the maitre d' must have directed her attention towards me and she starts to head back to our table.

"The Doctor is a valued long term customer," I hear the maitre d' say, stressing the honorific, "we would like him to feel comfortable whenever he chooses to visit. You are disturbing him, his companion and our other customers. Please leave and do not return, otherwise the police will be called."

"Gil, are you OK?"

Sara's voice brings my attention back to our own table. I meet her eyes, knowing that it will be obvious that I am not 'OK' at all.

"I'm sorry Griss, maybe I should have grabbed a member of staff instead of getting involved myself but they just made me so mad, I couldn't let them keep saying those things without defending you."

'You', not 'us', that one difference hurts me almost as much as the words Sara felt that I needed to be defended from. I let my gaze drop briefly to the table with these thoughts and then turn my head to look across the terrace and through towards the entrance to the restaurant. I do so just in time to see Lucy step to one side as our tormentors' barge past her.

Now that I know that Lucy has responded to the radio call button in my pocket a certain amount of relief spreads through me, hopefully I can get away without losing my self-control in public. Luckily the system of call buttons used by the residents and staff at Cottonwood House has a long range in order to cover the extensive grounds. My transmission was strong enough to reach Lucy's receiver as she killed the time until the end of my meal by exploring the local shops while the Cottonwood House van remained on the restaurant's parking lot.

Unfortunately the relief isn't enough to make me want to stay, the day has been ruined and I don't want to compound it by remaining only to hear Sara tell me that she has decided to go away again.

The maitre d' is coming to our table, full of apologies. I simply point to the spot where my wheelchair has been parked and then lift my wallet from the table to indicate that I want the check.

Despite offers of complementary coffees and dessert to make up for 'any upset' I remain adamant that I want to leave. It's unusual for me to hold on to anger for very long but, right now, it seems to be growing instead of dispersing and my head is beginning to ache. The men may have gone but they've stirred up a lot of negativity. Has this experience made Sara more likely to walk away? I doubt it, but has it made her want to stay because she thinks that I need some kind of defender? Much as I want her to stay, do I really want it to be on those terms? My frustration soars because I can't even begin to fully express my feelings to myself, let alone to Sara.

Having finally grasped that I really don't want to stay, the maitre d' tells me that there will be no charge for our meal. Fortunately my math skills are as good as they ever were and I easily work out how much money I need to leave, including a decent tip to absorb any small error. It isn't the restaurant's fault that those men behaved the way they did, so why should they pay? It might have been harder for me to show my opinion this way if I'd been intending to pay with my credit card, but my speech wasn't the only part of my language skills to be affected by my injury. I can't use formal sign language anymore, even though I still understand it, and I can't write, not even well enough to produce a scrawl for a signature that would be reliable enough for my card company to accept.

By the time that I have put the cash on a side plate, Lucy is by my side. I meet her concerned gaze and then cross my eyes by focussing on the tip of my nose. Not the most adult thing in the world to do, but it has become our signal to say that my patience has run out. Seeing it, Lucy knows not to ask any questions and to let me get out of the way as quickly as possible.

With her extra experience Lucy gets me into my wheelchair more quickly than the others could have done and I immediately start for the door, leaving Sara to explain what happened. I just hope it won't take too long before Lucy joins me on the car lot.

Not for the first time I wish for the acceleration and manoeuvrability of a manual chair, but with only one good hand I'd only end up going around in circles if I tried to use one.

Perhaps it's just as well that I couldn't get out here any quicker, because the idiots from the restaurant are still messing around trying to work out who's sitting where in their (predictably) open top luxury car. I only wish I had some way of recording their licence number, the Patrol would be on a safe bet if they pulled them over for a DUI.

Lucy has almost caught up with me by the time the car pulls away, but I don't wait to greet her before I set off towards the dark blue mini-van with the Cottonwood House logo on the side. I think it's a surprise to her when I come to a halt beside the van's rear doors. Normally I prefer to ride shotgun, but right now I can't be bothered with the extra wait while Lucy helps me up into the seat and then puts the wheelchair in the back. Because of its motor and the batteries to power it my chair is too bulky to be folded up and easily lifted into the vehicle, so Lucy uses the van's built in electric hoist. The hoist is powerful enough to lift a chair with someone still sitting in it, because not all the residents of Cottonwood House can stand as easily as I can. Now I make it clear that I intend to make the journey home in my chair. Lucy goes with the flow; she knows I can't be argued with when I'm in this mood.

The trip to Cottonwood House is short but feels interminable as I stare blindly through the window beside me. On arrival I am electronically returned to the ground and, once again, I don't bother to wait for Lucy. While she returns the hoist to its original position I am already heading back to my accommodation unit.


	5. Chapter 5

CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.

**Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words**

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- Alphonse Karr

**Chapter 5**

I hate getting worked up like this. Just because I can't control my feelings the way that I used to doesn't mean that I have become any more comfortable with them. With nothing else to focus on my earlier anger has morphed into frustration, with myself and, I have to admit, with Sara too. Also, the closer I get to the sanctuary of my private space, the more exhaustion is catching up with me. That effect isn't just because of today's exertions, but also because of the extra effort I've been putting into my behaviour and communication since the moment that I found out Sara was back, and now everything is catching up with me.

I zoom past Patrick, who inhabits the unit which takes up the other half of the small, single storey building that mine is in. He won't be offended that I didn't stop or wave, we all have our problems here at Cottonwood House and it mostly makes us more tolerant of other resident's quirks, just one of the reasons why I decided that I wanted to stay.

The radar key attached to my wheelchair automatically unlocks and opens the sliding door of my home and I drive straight in. Entering the open plan living room I pass the shelves containing my remaining books. These have been my solace, succour and salvation since the attack. If there is anything that I am grateful for in this whole affair it is that the damage to my brain was so localized. However severely my ability to express myself has been affected, the other parts of my brain that handle language have remained intact. I still understand what is said to me and, best of all, I can still read. Had it been the other way around then, being who I am, I think I would have suffered far more. Right now, though I don't stop even for them. Pausing only to empty my pockets onto the worktop of the small kitchen area so that my utensils can be washed later, I continue through another sliding door and into my bedroom, letting the door slide satisfyingly shut behind me.

Bed is the most inviting place for me right now. Easing myself out of my chair I sit on the edge of the bed and reach down to remove my shoes. Pulling at the ends of the laces fails to produce the desired result, so I try toeing them off instead. They won't come and I suddenly remember Dan's warning that I would need to get help removing them. It probably hasn't helped that my feet will have swollen up after spending the whole day sitting down, making my task impossible.

It's the final straw.

Grabbing my alarm clock from the night stand I hurl it at the wall, letting out a wordless scream, before lying down, my legs half off the bed and my face buried in the pillows, while the tears that I managed to avoid for so long begin to flow.

I only move again because I hear the door begin to slide open, rolling onto my left side so that my deaf ear is uppermost and the good one muffled by the pillows. That way Lucy, who will be coming to check that I'm OK after I yelled like that will take it as a sign that I don't want to be spoken to right now.

There is a long pause as I lie with my eyes tightly shut and then gentle hands begin to remove my shoes. Finally I'm starting to feel calmer and my body relaxes ready for sleep after the stresses and exertions of earlier, only to tense again when, now that my shoes and socks are off, the careful fingers are beginning to work at the waist band of my pants. That is something which Lucy simply wouldn't do without checking with me first. She always has, it is a simple matter of respect. My eyes spring open in shock. Automatically I roll onto my back, pushing the questing hands away even as I realise that they belong to Sara who must have followed us both here in her own vehicle.

"Gil, what's wrong? When you didn't answer my question I just assumed it was OK for me to help you. It's not like you've got anything hidden under there that I haven't seen before."

Actually, I have, not below the waistband, but above. The scars from my head wounds may be well hidden but I have others, mostly from when I was in the ICU. The worst is from where a feeding tube was inserted directly into my stomach, but there are others, including from bilateral chest drains after a mild cough I'd had when I was attacked took advantage of the ventilator and my lowered immune system to add pneumonia to my list of woes. My torso is now far uglier than it was in the days when I used to worry that my middle aged paunch would put Sara off.

Now that the most I think Sara and I should base our relationship on is friendship it is almost more important to my vanity that she doesn't see all of that. I am determined that she will not see my body any more exposed than it is already.

"Oh I see," Sara tells me now, "You made it clear that you want us just to be friends and now you think that I'm trying to change your mind. Give me some credit Gil. If I was going to seduce you I'd pick a time when you weren't so obviously upset. You know me better than anyone else has ever done. Do you seriously think I'd take advantage of anybody's vulnerability, least of all yours?"

I feel a hot flush climb up my neck and spread up towards my scalp. I'm not embarrassed but hurt and a little indignant. With the warm blood comes the heat of tears, I thought I'd got the better of them but now they're back with a vengeance.

Turning into my pillows again I am wracked by sobs. Although the trigger was Sara's false accusation and my frustration with my inability to correct her assumption I cry for other reasons too.

I cry like a small child and for many of the same reasons; I cry because I'm too tired to do anything else; because it feels like I've been scolded for something I didn't do; and because bullies have ruined my day.

I cry because, by behaving like this, I'm probably ruining any chance that I might have had of persuading Sara that I don't want her to feel that I need to be protected or defended. How can I expect her not to pity me when I am behaving so pitifully?

I cry for all these reasons and I cry for the middle aged man who can't control his tears. It's at times like this that I mourn the old Gil Grissom the most and I also weep for the dreams of a normal relationship with Sara Sidle that died with him.

I don't know what Sara herself is doing while I try and deal with the storm of my emotions. Maybe my sobs and the muffling action of the pillows against my good ear stopped me from hearing her leave, just like they stopped me hearing her offer to help me undress. I wouldn't blame her if she went to ask Lucy to take over. It must have been shocking for her to see me break down like this.

Eventually, the tears begin to slow down and I manage to open my eyes, just as a pair of hands reach to place a glass of water and a small cup containing a few pills onto the nightstand beside me. One of the hands then moves to gently stroke my hair, compassionately I think, not patronisingly. I roll over onto my back to see who the hand belongs to.

The hair is brown, not fair, it must be Sara. The image of her is blurred but her voice seems calm enough in spite of what she has just witnessed.

"Lucy thought you might need those. I'll be back in a minute." She heads through the door to my specially modified bathroom.

On her way back, Sara picks up my alarm clock and replaces it on its stand on the bedside locker. A novelty clock in the shape of a baseball, it is another of my birthday gifts, this time from Lucy. She didn't just pick it for me because I love to watch the sport, but also because it is designed to be thrown at a wall in order to turn it off, making it more robust than the previous three clocks that I had. They all died from a combination of frustration and the clumsiness that happens in the first moments after I wake up, when I forget my disabilities and reach to turn off the alarm with my paralysed right hand.

By now I'm trying to get my arms into the right position to push myself to sit up, checking that my right hand is at an angle which will be safe for me to put my weight on it. Sara simply reaches over to the nightstand again and uses the controller there to instruct the bed to raise me into a sitting position. Clearly she hasn't gotten out of the habit of scanning a room for clues, while I was crying myself out she has spotted that my bed isn't the regular twin that it appears to be and found the handset that allows it to be manoeuvred as flexibly as a hospital bed.

It's a relief to be upright and, after swallowing my pills I lean back, closing my eyes again for a moment. My dose of pneumonia reduced my lung capacity and my chest is aching after my earlier wracking sobs. My headache is bad too, behind my temples and in the area of my injuries, but I know it will begin to ease soon now that I have taken the combination of painkillers and blood pressure meds that Lucy knew I would need.

After a few moments, during which my body begins to relax again, I feel Sara's hands gently cup my cheeks and tilt my face up towards hers, gently stilling the swaying motion. I get a watery view of her beautiful brown eyes as she gazes deeply into mine. I suppose she's hoping to read my thoughts more easily this way. Her thumbs caress my cheeks just above the line of my beard as she watches and waits for me to calm down fully.

Once I have managed to get my breathing under control I wait for Sara to start speaking. At least this goodbye will be to my face. I concentrate on reading her lips, not wanting to face, yet unwilling to risk missing, the last words she'll ever say to me.


	6. Chapter 6

CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.

**Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words**

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- Alphonse Karr

**Chapter 6**

Sara doesn't speak straight away. Instead she smiles at me before placing a box of tissues by my left hand and sitting on the edge of the bed with her body turned to face me. She picks up my right hand and begins to examine it. In between trying to use the tissues to make myself a little more presentable I watch as she twists and turns my hand as if examining it in great detail with both touch and sight.

After a few minutes of this she looks up to see me watching her.

"You can't feel any of this, can you?"

I shake my head.

"I did wonder, because even though you can't make it move, your hand still feels the same to me as it always did. It's just as warm and the skin texture is the same, even down to the callous on your middle finger from all those years you've spent holding a pen. From the day we first met again I've been wondering if you still had some feeling in spite of the paralysis, but I never got around to asking because I wanted to continue to believe in the possibility that you could.

"But I should be asking those questions, shouldn't I, because that need to believe that things are the way I want them to be has made me make mistakes, and worse ones than just thinking it was funny to swat you with a menu."

She smiles at that, but it's one that says she's apologetic about her actions not amused by them. I move my good hand to rest over hers as it still holds the other one.

"Lucy told me that spending even a few minutes with you would show me that your intellect is still intact and, as soon as I let myself look into your eyes properly, I knew that that was true. I saw a lot of other things in there that were familiar too, so I told myself that, inside at least, you had hardly changed at all. There were other things to see as well but I dismissed the wariness and unhappiness as the result of my stupid reaction when I'd first arrived. Since then I've behaved towards you as if you're just the same as you always were, in spite of everything you tried to say about how we must both have changed while we've been apart.

"I can never fully understand the amount of fear, pain and frustration you've been through since we were last together, but I realise now that it must have changed you a lot, even ignoring the direct effects of the injury itself. If it hadn't then that would really have been proof that people were right when they said you were some kind of robot, and I know that you're not.

"Just because you don't..." she pauses to use her free hand to remove a tear which I've somehow missed wiping away from my cheek, "...didn't express your emotions never meant that they weren't there."

She looks down at her tear moistened finger for a moment and smiles as though she's recalling something.

"Do you remember the first time I touched you like that? I'd just caught you taking your own pulse so you could tell if you were getting really angry yet. Maybe it should have made me realise that the 'Ice man' thing wasn't entirely a deliberate act but I guess I just got tied up with how cute you looked all covered in chalk dust. All the same it's no wonder that the rest of us didn't always spot when you had feelings about a case, if you didn't always know yourself.

"I'm sorry that I always took it so badly when you suggested I try being more detached, it probably would have done me good and I don't think you ever meant to suggest I took it as far as you did, you just wanted me to be able to stand back a little more, give myself room to breathe. Maybe if I had I wouldn't have burnt out the way that I did.

"And maybe there were times when you wanted to be more like me. The more I came to know you the more I realised that you had real problems knowing how you felt at times, and not just where I was concerned. Even when you did know what was happening in your heart, you didn't necessarily know what to do about it.

"So it's not surprising at all that you're finding it hard to cope now that things have changed for you. Every time a strong feeling comes along you must feel like you're losing control. I think you should be proud of how you dealt with what happened today. Whatever came afterwards you left the restaurant with your dignity intact. In fact you did a far better job of dealing with the situation than I did.

"All the same it's taken a lot out of you hasn't it? So I'm going to leave you in peace to get some rest. There's going to be plenty of time later to cover anything that needs to be said."

Sara starts to stand up but I tighten my grip on her hand. I may be tired but I know that I won't rest properly until I know for certain what the situation is regarding our relationship. The encounter in the restaurant may have triggered the level of exhaustion I'm at now but I have been feeling the strain ever since the day Sara arrived. I don't blame her for it but every time she visits I feel I need to make an extra effort and she has come nearly every day. I'm just not used to that level of activity on top of all my regular therapy sessions.

Sara sits back down; she has a puzzled expression on her face. How do I tell her what I need to know, and just how much I need to know it? All I can do is look at her and hope that she can read my mind.

"You look so worried, Gil, if I didn't know better I'd say you were scared."

I am scared. I nod and grasp her hand even more firmly. I hope I'm not hurting her.

"Ok, so what's frightening you Bug man?" Sara leans forward and cups my chin with her free hand. I can see the slight frown of concentration that means she's making a real effort to figure out the puzzle.

"Are you afraid that, if I leave now, I might not come back and see you again? I've already said that I will, haven't I? Or would you rather that I didn't?"

I don't have to deliberately exaggerate my expression to make it clear that the last thing Sara said isn't true. I value every moment I have with Sara, that's why I've never let her know how tiring I find her frequent visits.

"Good, because I want to keep spending time with you, quite a lot in fact, if you'll let me."

Does she see the glimmer of hope in my eyes?

"What I'm trying to tell you, Gil, is that I can't ever imagine not wanting to be your friend and we're going to have plenty of time to work everything else out because I'm staying. I've done my travelling, I need a permanent base now and I've decided that Las Vegas is going to be the place."

The relief is incredible. All at once my breathing starts to ease and the pain in my head recedes into the background even though the meds I took can't possibly have begun to work yet. I can feel the smile edging onto my face. Sara is staying!

But does she realise the sacrifice she is making? I don't want to be responsible for ruining the rest of her life. As positive as I try to be about my handicaps I know that Sara deserves more than tying herself down to spend time with someone so obviously broken. Maybe I should shake my head, point to the door, find some way to tell her I've decided I don't want her to stay...


	7. Chapter 7

CSI: isn't mine and no profit will be made from this work.

**Cottonwood House II – Lost for Words**

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- Alphonse Karr

**Chapter 7**

"Stop that, stop it right now!"

My head snaps up as Sara raises her voice and I look at her in confusion.

"I know that look, the one that crossed your face just now. It took me a while to realise what it meant in those first years after I joined the lab but as soon as I knew for sure I sat you down and we dealt with it, remember? If we hadn't I don't think we would ever have gotten together.

"Just because you're older than me doesn't mean you're the only responsible adult in this relationship, you know that. That's why you told me that this was my decision to make. You made it clear that it was up to me if I decided to stay, knowing that you want to start again from friendship while we explore the ways we've both changed since we were last together and that, wherever our relationship ends up, fatherhood is not something you see in your future. Well, I've thought about all that and I'm staying, so don't start second guessing me now."

I try to look contrite.

"You do want me to stay, don't you?"

I look Sara in the face and blink, not because I haven't understood her question, but because at times like this when pain and emotion are getting on top of me I tend to find it easier to slip back into the old "one blink for yes, two for no" system of communication that I had to use when I first woke up from my coma. Unfortunately Sara doesn't know the code.

"Answer me Gil, ignoring what you think is the right answer for my needs, do you want me to stay around, yes or no?"

I nod, so vigorously that my headache comes back full force and I have to lean back against my pillows with my eyes tightly closed.

Sara's concerned voice asks me if I am OK. Without attempting to move my head or even open my eyes I release her hand and raise mine. Stopping her anxious questioning with my hand held flat, palm out I then point to her and then mime talking with my hand, as though I'm using a sock puppet, to tell her she can continue with what she is trying to tell me. Thankfully she has finished chastising me for second guessing her decision and she starts to explain her choice.

"I know that in those few 'phone conversations we had after I left I told you that I could never imagine being able to live in Las Vegas permanently again and, for a long time, that is what I truly believed. Then my travels took me overseas and more people began to ask me questions about my home. Every time they did I found myself thinking of Las Vegas. It doesn't matter where I was born or was fostered or where I went to school, Las Vegas has been more of a home to me than anywhere else ever was. Of course a lot of that is down to you," she gently touches my arm and I manage to reopen my eyes enough to see the affectionate look she gives me before resuming, "but I've also spent more of my life, made more true friends and achieved more stability in that one city than I have ever done anywhere else.

"Other people don't run away abandoning their entire lives because something has gone badly wrong, if they all acted the way I did then New York, San Francisco and New Orleans would be ghost towns. Even just among our little group Nick never ran after all he's been through over the years and you didn't, and that has meant you've had your friends, your little family, around you as a support network. By running away I lost a lot and I let Natalie Davis and Hannah West and all the others like them win and it also meant that they didn't just hurt me; by leaving I let them hurt you too.

"I'm never going to go back to working as a CSI, that would be a step too far, but when I came back here it wasn't to try and persuade you to leave town and come away with me, forcing you to throw away your life too, it was to try and rebuild my life on the foundations I already made in Vegas. I've done a lot of thinking since I found out that I might not be able to be with you in the way that I'd originally hoped and I realised that, in some ways, it's even more important for me to deal with the situation by staying in an area I know so well."

She smiles almost ruefully and reaches to push away the few curls that have matted themselves to my forehead; it's amazing to feel the gentle affection in that simple action.

"Of course just because I know the area doesn't mean that I haven't a lot of challenges to face. Obviously I need to find a place to live, Catherine has been very generous in arranging for me to live at the Eclipse but if I'm looking for stability a Strip casino hotel is probably not the best place to find it," she grins.

"Of course I'll need a job to pay for all that."

I make a mental note to ensure that she gets enough of the money I banked from the sale of my townhouse to at least give her a deposit, even if she insists on paying me back later.

"I'm going to stay away from law enforcement but I'm sure that there are plenty more opportunities for someone who is bright, flexible," and beautiful, don't forget beautiful, "and has a broad science background. I need to find something that will interest me but that I won't find as all consuming as being a CSI was, you were right when you told me I needed to find room for outside interests in my life."

Yeah, I did, and then I hauled her into work as soon as she had a day off and tried to do something about it.

"Balance also means having friends outside of whatever job I wind up doing. Fortunately I have a head start on that although I've a feeling that I have some major repair work to do in that department too."

My raised eyebrow illustrates my surprise. The only real friends I can remember Sara having in Vegas are the CSI team and I can't imagine that any of them aren't welcoming her back with open arms.

"It's OK Gil; no-one's giving me a hard time. I'm sure the guys would forgive me for leaving them the way I did in a heartbeat, but they're your friends too, they know better than I do what it was like for you to have to deal with me having gone so suddenly and they were the ones who held vigil at your bedside while I wasn't there because I was too wrapped up in my own problems for it to occur to me that something could happen to you that might mean you needed to contact me urgently. I'll always regret that and that I dismissed your failure to answer my calls so easily and didn't make the effort to find out from someone else if anything was wrong. It's bound to have had an effect on how the team feels about me."

Sara has taken hold of my right hand again and now I'm glad that she doesn't let go as I use that arm to raise her fingers to my lips so that I can gently kiss them. I can't speak for the others so I do the best I can right now and try to show that my own forgiveness is complete.

It's strange, but it was because Sara wasn't there while I was in hospital that forgiving her became easier. Besides the pain of her chosen method of telling me that she was going, the thing that had bothered me the most wasn't that she didn't _need_ me, I'd known how independent she was from the start, but that she didn't _want_ me to help. It was only while I was lying immobile in my hospital bed, listening to Jim explain that he'd come to a dead end in his efforts to find Sara that I came to understand Sara's motives because, however much I wanted, needed, her right then, there was a part of me that was relieved that Sara couldn't see me like that and hadn't had to go through the ordeal of waiting to see when, or even if, I was going to wake up. It wasn't that I wouldn't have given anything and forgiven everything to have Sara by my side, but it is when I finally understood why she was so determined not to let me see her fall apart.

"Thanks, Gil," Sara treats me to a megawatt smile, "I know I have your support and it means a lot, especially after I let you down so much."

I shake my head.

"Yes, I have, I've been totally selfish at times and I hurt you in the process. Not only that but I justified it to myself as being OK because of how you sometimes made me feel during my first years in Vegas. That's not fair is it, though, because however it might have seemed from the outside I've come to realise that in your head you were doing everything that you did because you thought you were doing the best thing for me."

Well, I certainly wasn't trying to hurt Sara and I did believe that her career and reputation were in as much danger as mine if we started a relationship and had it discovered, but I wouldn't claim to be as altruistic as all that. As much as I believed Sara would be better off without me, I also wanted to protect myself from the hurt that would come if I dared to become involved only for her to realise that for herself.

"OK, so have I made it clear that this decision and any repercussions are down to me?"

I nod again.

"And, just so you're aware, because it's clearly something you're concerned about, the children thing? It's OK; to be honest I was pretty much thinking the same way as you while we were together. If you had been eager to have children then I would probably have agreed to start a family with you but, as long as you didn't raise the issue, I wasn't going to. C'mon Gil, you know how I reacted every time you asked me to deal with a young kid as part of an investigation and didn't you notice that whenever someone from the lab called in during their maternity leave to show off their new baby I was always the one who ignored it and carried on working? I know people say that 'it's different when it's your own', but I never believed that and I certainly don't want to bring a child into this over filled, over extended, over heating world as an experiment to try the theory out.

"As for my body clock starting to tick, well I've felt nothing yet."

Sara is smiling when she makes the last comment, but now she shifts her position on the bed and withdraws her hands to her lap where she stares at her fingers for a few moments, a slight frown on her face. I recognise the signs, possibly familiar only to myself, she is preparing herself for one of those rare moments of candour when she reveals more of herself and her past than she is usually prepared to show the world. I school my features into a neutral expression, Sara needs to know that I am listening and ready to take whatever she has to say seriously, no matter that the level of trust she still has in me after all this time makes me want to grin.

"You know, Gil, when I was a kid growing up in the child services system, there was never any possibility of my getting out until I was old enough for emancipation. Mom wasn't likely to be freed or deemed a fit mother until well after I was grown up but, despite being told that, after everything that had happened with my Dad there was no way she was going to agree to sign me over to be put up for adoption by some stranger she knew nothing about. Anyway, I was aware of that from the start, but plenty of other kids weren't and the ones who had no possibility of family being allowed to pick them up used to hold on to the idea that one day they would be adopted and the uncertainty and moving about that came from being in foster care would be over for them. Some of them would talk about it constantly until the day someone took them to one side and explained that the older they got the less chance there was that anyone would want them. Sometimes I saw that conversation happen right in front of me and the loss of hope was painful to watch. Like I said, the idea of very young kids scares me half to death, but the possibility that one day I might be the person who gave one of those older kids their hope back, prove to them that they've not been given up on just because their age got into double figures and maybe turn their lives around because of it, well that might be worthwhile.

"I'm not ready for that yet, I might never be, but with older kids adoption agencies are more likely to be flexible and take me on as an older woman and, if it comes to that, as a single person. So you see Gil, although I would want your support if I ever get to that point, you not wanting to be a father wouldn't necessarily stop me being a Mom if that's the way that my future unfolds."

Sara brightens again, the confession of her deepest thoughts over with.

"But that's way in the future. Right now you need to rest. I'm going to give you a few days while I get the wheels in motion for my new life in Las Vegas and then I'm going to speak to Catherine and Lucy and find out how I can fit into the other guys' visiting roster, that way we might all get a piece of you without wearing you out completely."

She grins and leans over to use the control that moves my bed back into a sleeping position, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead as she does so.

"Do you want me to send in Lucy to help you finish undressing?"

I nod drowsily, pleased that Sara no longer seems angry that I didn't want her to do that job.

"Sleep well, Gil Grissom, I _will_ be back."

I smile happily but now that the conversation I was dreading has turned out so well my eyes have already closed of their own accord. I have a feeling that when Lucy gets in here she's going to find me fast aslee...

-------------------------------

**A/N** Well, that's it and, yes, I know I could have written more. My usual response is that with all my writing I like to leave people the room to imagine the story continues the way that they would like it to. Plus, I've always been told it's a good idea to leave your audience wanting more. :D In truth, if a story could ever be described as being a nemesis, this one has been mine, it took far longer than I expected to write it and it has been a struggle a lot of the time. This just seemed a good place to end, with Grissom relaxed and dreaming about what the future might bring. Thank you for reading.

Finally a brief "plug". Last year, I am extremely pleased to say, the precursor to this story, "Cottonwood House" received a nomination in the CSI Fan Fiction awards 2008. Now it's time for those awards again. There are only a few days left for nominations but voting will begin shortly afterwards so, if you want to have a say in who wins, or even if you just want a few reading suggestions from the nominations list, all the information that you need can be found at the web page which, of course I can't give you the link for here *sigh*. However if you do a search for "CSI Fanfic Awards 2009" (including the quotation marks) you should get the right page. Please take a look!

**News Flash:** I am pleased and proud to say that this story has now been nominated in the angst category of the 2009 Awards!


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